


But For The Record...

by lielabell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Romance, cockblocking!Sherlock, it takes John a while to cotton on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lielabell/pseuds/lielabell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite what the world seems to think, John Watson is not gay. (This fact will not, at any point, stop him from shagging Sherlock, however.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	But For The Record...

**Author's Note:**

> All the love in the world to non_canonical and queenitsy for being super stellar awesome ladies and the best betas ever. <3 **Edit:** Should probably mention that the title and concept for this fic come from a line in A Scandal in Belgravia: John: "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record- if anyone out there still cares- I'm not actually gay."

Despite what the world seems to think, John Watson is not gay.

That's not to say that he isn't attracted to men. He is. And he's even acted on it, four times to date. Hell, he's even enjoyed it, to the point where he really wouldn't mind it happening again, if he met the right bloke. But the fact still remains, he is not gay. He's straight. Because that's what you are when you really, really like having sex with women. And John really, really does like it.

Which is why he gets so damn worked up whenever someone just casually assumes he's Sherlock's put upon boyfriend instead of his put upon hetero life partner. Because everyone, _everyone_ , knows Sherlock. And everyone "knows" that John is Sherlock's "boyfriend" and that means that waiters will be rude and food will come out cold and snippy comments about infidelity will get thrown his way each and every time he tries to take a woman on a date. And that, that right there, is what is keeping John from being blissfully happy with his current living situation. Because a man of a certain age with a certain sex drive has _needs_. And Sherlock, damn his hide, isn't about to help take care of them, no matter how much he cockblocks.

Which is why they are at this point, the point where John is standing in the middle of the living room with his hands balled into fists and his teeth clenched and a headache flaring to life behind his eyes.

“Can’t you just put it on your blog that we aren’t involved with each other?” he snaps, because really. How hard would that be?

Sherlock, for his part, just sighs. “They won’t believe me, even if I do.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John spins on his heel, crosses the room and punches the wall. “What in the name of hell am I going to have to do to get a leg over? Move to bloody Moscow?”

Sherlock sighs again. “Boring.”

John scowls at him. “I don’t have to stand for this,” he seethes. “I don’t.”

“Right,” Sherlock stands up. “I’ll be in my room, avoiding you, for the rest of the day. Please don’t bother me until you’re over,” he makes a fluttery hand motion, “this.”

John bites out a laugh. “Over it? I won’t be over it until I’ve got something over me. Or under me. Or to the ruddy side of me. At this point I don’t give a damn how I get it, so long as I’m getting it.”

Sherlock does a slow blink, then gives him a tight smile. “I’m deleting that, just so you know,” he says as he walks past John.

“I’m going to have a wank,” John barks at his retreating form, “and then I’ll have another and another and another after that.”

“Delete. Delete. Delete,” Sherlock shouts back, slamming his door before John can reply.

*

Sherlock is not asexual, no matter what anyone thinks. He just isn't bothered by it the way everyone one else is. And John's fine with that. He doesn't push, doesn't pry, doesn't ever act on all the unresolved sexual tension that surrounds them. No matter that sometimes it's so thick in the air he feels he could cut it with a knife.

But this? This John is _not_ fine with.

Live and let live only goes so damn far, after all, and finding one's flatmate in one's bed with his hand down his pants is so far outside of the range of acceptable behavior that it's taking all of John's control not to grab said flatmate by the scruff of the neck and shake him until some sense rattles its way into his ruddy brain.

"What in the fuck are you doing?"

Sherlock's eyes snap open and he lets out a soft gasp. "That should be obvious, I think. Especially to you, given how frequently you engage in the activity."

"Sherlock, I am giving you to the count of ten to get your hand off your cock and your arse out of my bed," John says through gritted teeth.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, but pulls his hand out of his pants. "Fine." He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, looking so damn dejected that John, despite everything, feels guilty.

"You want to explain to me what exactly is going on here?" he asks, because he's had enough experience with Sherlock's twisty thought process to know that there's bound to be something other than the obvious happening here.

"No," Sherlock snips, looking down his nose at John, "I don't think that I do."

"Sherlock," John starts, but is cut off by a loud huff from the man himself, who swans out of the room in that overly dramatic way of his. John watches him go, brow furrowed as he tries to figure out what just happened.

Sherlock clearly wanted to get caught. Otherwise he wouldn’t have, plain as that. But _why_? There had to be a reason to it, even if John himself wouldn’t figure it out. And that reason probably had something to do with an experiment or a case or something equally logical and non-obvious to a bloke like John.

But...

But nothing. Sure, it’s not normal, but then neither is Sherlock and it’s not worth the headache to try to suss out the sense behind Sherlock’s seemingly nonsensical behavior. John lets out a sigh and shakes his head.

"Sherlock," he says again, almost too softly to hear.

*

Susan is not easily put off, as proved by the fact that she's made it past the first date. Hell, she's made it past the third date, and that, as far as John is concerned, is a modern bloody miracle.

She ignores the sighs and eye rolls and thumped down plates of food. She ignores the double takes and unsubtle throat clearings and pointed comments. Sweet lord on high, she's even ignored the twenty texts John's received during the last ten minutes. And John finally, _finally_ , is about to reach that promised land between her legs. So, of course, that is when Sherlock bloody Holmes himself shows up.

Never mind that they are in Susan's bedroom and the front door was locked.

"Holy fuck," John shouts as Susan tries to tug the sheets up to cover herself. He spins around, not caring that the only thing he's got on is a condom. "This time you've gone too god damn far."

"I wouldn't interrupt you if it wasn't important," Sherlock says coolly, like John isn't standing naked in front of him, all but quivering with rage.

"Whatever it bloody is," John says through clenched teeth, "it can damn well wait until I've got off with Susan."

Sherlock gives him a superior look. "Wrong."

“No, no, I'm not."

"Fine," Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back. "Get on with it. I'll wait."

"John," Susan says, her voice as thin as a reed, "I'm not okay with this."

John closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. He forces some of the rage back and turns to her with what he hopes is a placid expression on his face. "Yes, I wouldn't expect that you would be."

She chews on her lip and tugs the sheet higher up, her eyes darting between Sherlock and John. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Right now."

John sucks on his bottom lip and nods. "Yeah, I thought that was coming." He rubs his cheek. "Would I be right in thinking that you aren't going to be chuffed to be hearing from me in the future?" She gives a sad little nod. "Right."

John takes the condom off and knots the end. He lets himself imagine how nice it would feel to chuck it at Sherlock's stupid bloody face, but controls the urge and instead deposits it into the rubbish bin by Susan's bed. He stoops and picks up his clothing, stepping into his y-fronts and jeans. He leaves the zip down as he buttons them, going for speed over decency. John tugs his shirt over his head, then picks up his wallet, keys and mobile from Susan's bedside table.

“That’s everything,” he says to himself. He gives Susan another apologetic look. “Sorry for, well,” he shrugs.

Susan doesn’t reply, not that John had honestly expected her to, just stares at him like he’s some sort of pervert. It’s all John can do not to scream at Sherlock as they make their way out of her room, out of her flat, out of her life.

“John,” Sherlock says as the door to Susan’s flat closes behind them.

“Don’t even start,” John cuts him off.

“But--”

“No.” John shakes his head. “Just, no. I’m going home. I don’t care what the case is or what you think you need from me, I’m going home. And I’m going to have a nice long think. When I’m done with that, I’ll deal with you.”

Sherlock freezes at that, his eyes going wide. “John,” he says, his voice all but a whisper.

John ignores him. He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps on walking.

*

Greg’s a mate. A real, true mate. One you can get pissed with and bitch about work to. One you can watch the football with, even though they’re cheering for the opposite side and not holding back on the abuse either. One you can share the gory details of your family life with. And, thank all that’s holy, one that believes you when you say you aren’t sleeping with someone.

It’s that last one that puts Greg at the top of John’s friends list.

So after John has his bit of a think, he phones Greg, because if anyone in the world is going to understand, it's Greg.

Unfortunately, Greg's advice -- "fuck the mad wanker" -- isn't nearly as helpful as John could have hoped.

"Right," he says in a long, drawn out sigh. "Fuck him."

Greg chuckles. "God, yes. He's been gagging for it for ages."

John frowns. "Wait, when you say fuck him," his voice trails off.

"Shag him proper," Greg clarifies. "Trust me, mate, it will solve both your problems."

"Yeah, remember how I said I'm _not_ involved with him? I meant it."

Greg snorts. "Ta. I know. And, frankly, I'm sick of it."

"Wait, what?"

"I said I'm sick of it. He wants to shag you rotten, John. Been panting after you for ages. And you, well, you're not disinterested in him, now are you? I know it's not your typical game, but it's obvious that you've got some sort of a thing for him too. So why not just put all of us out our misery already and bugger the tosser."

"Right," John says slowly, and, honestly, he's kind of getting sick of saying it. "Right. Yeah. I'm going to just," he squeezes his eyes shut. "You know what, I've got to, um, look, I'll call you later, okay?"

Greg lets out a huff of amusement. "Right, talk to you later John." And then the line goes dead and John's even more confused than he was to start with.

"Fuck the mad wanker," he repeats to himself. "Huh."

*

There's no use hiding anything from Sherlock. For one thing, he always figures it out, usually in less time than it takes for his eyes to sweep over John's body, and for another, he takes far too much pleasure in pointing out exactly how obvious John was being about whatever it is John was attempting to hide.

So John doesn't hide. Doesn't even pretend like he isn't sizing Sherlock up to see how they'd fit together, which, just for the record, is pretty damn good.

Sherlock, of course, knows _exactly_ what John's thinking. No doubt down to the fact that John's just decided that he's going to wait till they are certain it's safe to go bareback, but once they are he's going to bend all six feet of Sherlock over the back of the sofa. And, yes, just like magic, Sherlock's eyes are darting to the sofa in question, a smirk hovering about his lips.

"It takes seventy two hours, on average, to get the result of STI testing back," John says as coolly as if he were talking about the burn pattern of petrol and not telling his flatmate that he plans on shagging him silly in three days time.

Sherlock lets out an amused huff and pushes off from the chair he was slouching in. John gives him a quizzical look as he leaves the room, then shrugs and goes back to pecking out the latest entry to his blog. He's just starting to get into his groove when Sherlock drops a folder next to him.

"What's this then?" John glances up at Sherlock, who is standing with his hands clasped behind his back with that smirk still on his face. It's clear he's not going to get an answer, so John saves his work and closes his laptop. He pulls the folder in front of him and flips it open. "Huh," he says as it becomes obvious what Sherlock is smirking about. John scans the page, then turns it over and looks at the next one. He chuckles, his eyes flicking to the date, which is exactly two weeks before the first one. A smile tugs at his lips as he skips to the last page, and he can't help the laugh that escapes him when he see the date. "You've been getting tested every two weeks for the last year and a half?" he asks incredulously.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You're the sort that would want a clean bill of health before engaging in any sexual behavior."

"Yes, obviously, but _a year and a half_?"

"I knew you would get there eventually, I just didn't think it would take you quite so long to cotton on," Sherlock says with a roll of the eyes.

John shakes his head bemusedly. "You could have said something, you berk."

Sherlock sniffs. "The puzzle pieces were all laid out for you, John. I'm hardly to blame if you failed to recognize the pattern."

"Right," John says fondly. "Of course. I'm the one that's thick." Sherlock makes a sound in agreement and John can't help but laugh as he shuffles the papers back in order, then places them neatly in their folder. "As I was saying, it will be at least seventy-two hours before _my_ test results come back."

"No need."

"Sherlock," John starts, but the other man runs him over.

"You're clean." John opens his mouth again, but Sherlock holds up his hand. "You get tested before any new sexual relationships. You also get tested after breaking things off, just to be sure, despite the fact that you never have sex without a condom because you have trust issues, which I approve of entirely. Ninety-nine percent is not one hundred, now is it? Your last partner was Gwendolyn Lee, twenty-eight with two cats and a mortgage, never would have worked out in the long run, even if she hadn't been using you as a way to get back at her ex--"

John makes a face. "You do realize that flatmates don't normally know that level of detail about each other's girlfriends, right?"

Sherlock doesn't even bother to acknowledge the comment, continuing on as if John hadn't spoken. "And, like always, you had yourself tested the next day, then went back for a follow up six months later. Both tests reported a clean bill of health. As you haven't been in contact with anything other than your hand in the seven months since then, no new testing is required." He gives John a sly look. "Now, I believe that this is what you had in mind." He moves to the sofa and arranges himself so that he is kneeling facing the back. He turns his head and smiles over his shoulder at John. "Am I right?"

John licks his suddenly dry lips. "Yeah. You're right. Except for the bit where you're still dressed."

"Easily remedied," Sherlock replies.

And it is. It really is. They don't rush at each other and rip off their clothes or anything like that, but they do get down to their skin a whole lot faster than John would have thought possible. From there is all first touches and first tastes, the careful exploration all new lovers go through, though most probably don't do it quite so thoroughly. But that's Sherlock, isn't it? Of course he'll want map out John's body, find all its unique features and trace a path through John's history via his scars.

But John can't find it himself to mind much, not when it's done with teeth and tongue and almost reverent little "ohs" when something particularly interesting is revealed.

Turn about it fair play, after all, so John does a little exploration of his own, hands skimming down Sherlock’s body while he sucks and bites at Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock shudders under him, eyes impossibly wide and suddenly it clicks into place that this is new to him, that Sherlock hasn’t done this before.

Startled, John pulls back. “Are you,” he starts, but is cut off as Sherlock comes surging after him.

“Yes,” he growls, his arms wrapping around John’s back, tugging him close. “God, yes.”

John beams in response. “In that case,” he says, settling himself between Sherlock’s thighs. And then they are sliding together, skin against skin and it is so damn perfect. John’s got his hand around Sherlock’s hip, his mouth sucking on that spot where neck and shoulder meet, and Sherlock is making these noises that are something between a sob and a moan and somehow John’s on his knees, licking his way down Sherlock’s body, reveling in every hitch of his breath.

It's been a while, yeah, but John’s still got the hang of it, knowing precisely how to curl his tongue and exactly when Sherlock's ready for that second finger. Maybe he’s out of practice enough that his throat is going to be sore tomorrow, but god. It's worth it. Worth so much more than that to hear the way Sherlock's voice breaks he says John's name.

Then he’s pulling back again, mouth spread wide with a grin because Sherlock’s bucking on his hand and begging for more. John goes slow, because if it isn’t Sherlock’s first time, it’s damn close to it, but it’s all the better for it. Something like awe fills John as he takes in the sight before him. Sherlock’s pupils are blown wide, his head is thrown back and his hands are gripping on to John so tightly that he’s sure to leave bruises.

"Why didn't we do this sooner?" John pants, as he flexes his hips.

Sherlock shakes his head mutely, his eyes focused on John’s face like it’s the most important thing in the world and John, well, his mind goes a bit blank after that. It's not until later, when they are lying side by side on the living room floor, that the questions start. And not just the "how bloody soon can I do that again" ones either, but real, adult questions about things like the future and the viability of any relationship between the two of them.

"Do shut up," Sherlock says though John hasn't spoken. "You're ruining the afterglow."

John grins as he rolls onto his side, pressing close to Sherlock's still sweaty body. "You're amazing," he murmurs, finger tracing its way along Sherlock's clavicle. "Fantastic, even."

"Yes, yes, I know," Sherlock says dismissively, but his hand intercepts John's, stills it so that he can tangle their fingers together.

*

John doesn’t get worked up as easily these days, though it’s still rather annoying when people assume he’s Sherlock’s put upon boyfriend. Because he’s not. The put upon part, that is. He’s quite chuffed with things, actually. Or at least he is a good eighty percent of the time. Besides, that other twenty percent where Sherlock drives him mental is easily overlooked when it’s followed up with days of sleepy morning sex and lazy afternoons snuggled up besides Sherlock on the sofa, listening to the other man rant about crap TV and Mycroft’s iron grip on the news.

And Sherlock, for all his many faults, is just as mad about John in his own Sherlockian way. Which makes John just about the luckiest man in the world. Because a Sherlock in love is a Sherlock whose eyes glow and who smiles and composes wild, riveting music and says “my dear John” in that way that makes John’s knees melt and his heart skip a beat.

Though, for the record, John Watson is _still_ not gay.

Sure, he’s currently dating a man, the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with actually. But that means his final score will be five to thirty two, which puts the girls well ahead. So, yeah. Not gay. Probably bi-sexual, though he really would rather just stick to straight with a Sherlock-shaped exception.


End file.
